


In the Dark

by charnelhouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, F/M, Protective Din Djarin, Sex In A Cave, we almost died sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charnelhouse/pseuds/charnelhouse
Summary: Din and you have "we almost died" sex.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	In the Dark

His hands shake as he hovers over you - leather knuckles running over the split skin of your cheek. Your eyes blink open - blurred vision - soot in the corners of your lids. Your lip is swelling. The air is ripe with the carcass of fire - the oxygen turned chemical and grim.

“Din,” you whisper and it’s _terrified_ \- ragged and torn up. He touches you - keeps just _touching_ \- skating his palms over your skull - your chest - checking for gashes or fractures. “Din,” you repeat - as you try to sit up.

“Stay still. I need to - I need to check you over. Your head hit the ground pretty hard.” Even with the modulator - even through the cool, indifferent coating - his voice sounds distressed - notched on a tremble. _That was close_ \- _that was inches_ \- _seconds_ -

He murmurs your name as he lifts you up to scan your back - to search for _anything_. He presses his fingers to your temple and you flinch - the sharp, throbbing sting exploding forth. When he pulls his hand away, there’s blood on his gloves. He sighs - his enormous, hunched form deflating beside you.

“Not deep,” he assures. “Nothing to worry about, sweet girl.”

“Was it a bomb?”

He nods. He’d protected you with the bulk of him - wrapping himself around you before knocking you to the floor. You’d be bruised from the edges of his armor - the weight of him. The shrapnel and the flames licking off his back - smoke flooding their mouths as you both struggled for a clean, clear breath.

 _He’d saved you_.

“Din,” you repeat and you don’t know exactly what you want - what you _need_. Death had touched them both many times and in many different ways, but this had caught them off guard - shattered the pristine stillness of their _life_ outside the hunt.

They’d simply been enjoying the quiet - enjoying the space away from bounty hunting. A small, ramshackle house on the outskirts of Nevarro. The child with Greef and Cara - _thank fucking Maker_.

_“Honeymoon?” Cara had teased._

_“We’re not married,” you replied - the smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. “I’m anti-tradition.”_

_Cara laughed. “You’re anti-tradition with a Mandalorian? I don’t have the words.”_

_“Irony?”_

_“So basically you just want a few days to fuck in a place that is bigger than a tin can?”_

_“Yep.”_

“Was that?” you cough - dust-choked. “Was that meant for us?”

Din makes a frustrated snort- running his _still trembling hand_ over his chest. You aren’t used to it - aren’t used to seeing him shattered and knocked off his balance. “It must have been.”

Something is slicing hot through your stomach - tugging low.

The house is in ruins - your back is scraped to shit - there’s sand in your hair and you’re overwhelmed - sick off _fear_ and the very thin line you two had nearly crossed. Your head is _screaming_ and you prod at your wounded temple.

“Stop that,” He tugs your wrist away before finding some tattered cloth in the wreckage and handing it to you.

“That’s literally a breeding ground for infection.”

He shrugs. “Best we can do for now. We’ll clean it at Cara’s, but you need to stop the bleeding.”

“Fine.”

“C’mon,” he urges - gripping you gently by hip to help you over the rubble - the small, burning flames. “Let’s go somewhere less open. Get our bearings.”

The red sun slinks below the horizon before the rush of twilight - the gradual drift from burnt gold to tender violet - the clouds threaded in pink. It’s a gorgeous night, and you feel the pinch of tears behind your eyes - your tongue thickening as you taste something sour. _That was close_.

He finds a cave - a suspenseful black hole lined with black sand that thrums with the volcanic heart of the planet. The scattered gasps of smoke from the rivers of lava. The creep of sulfur and burnt air.

“We can’t make it back in the dark,” Din mutters - distracted. His mind most likely going through every option they have and every potential suspect who would threaten them. You almost laugh - that list is endless between the both of them. _Endless._

You shiver, wrapping your arms around your waist.

“Cold?” He’s already _there_ \- already tucking you against him - cradling your head to his shoulder. Your comfort - your constant state of being - is always on his mind. He _moves_ with you - he is intertwined with the tangles of your strings - he reacts to your wants and needs and it’s like _nothing else fucking matters_ unless you’re _okay_.

“You’re still shaking,” he notices - rubbing your back. “What do you need?”

_What do I need? What do I need?_

Your brain is going a mile a minute: fear, anxiety, frustration, debilitating fury because someone had tried to _kill_ them. And _stars_ it was so fucking close - you’d be dead if Mando hadn’t thrown himself on top of you.

You hook your fingers in his cape and he slots his chin over your head. He combs your hair back - squeezes the nape of your neck. “That was bad,” you finally say.

He tightens his arms - the weight of them comforting - protective. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. “Yeah, but we’re _fine_. We made it out. I’d never let anything happen to you, pretty girl.”

Your cheek throbs and there is the telltale signs of an incoming migraine from the wound at your temple. You are marked in the bomb and its wreckage while Din remains spotless. When you shift your face from his chest - there’s the smear of your own blood against the shine.

 _You want to forget_. _You want to forget_.

You reach for his helmet and his hands automatically fly to your wrists. It’s a reflex - a lifetime of protecting the secret vision of his identity. His grip relaxes and he allows you to pull it off - let it clatter to the floor as he clings to your waist.

His face is _everything_ in the moonlight - utterly gorgeous in its familiarity. The dim light casts its shadows across the strong curve of his nose, catching the rough beard that lines his jaw. He looks at you with such ruthless sincerity - such devotion. The intimacy almost _pains_ you - the intimacy of _knowing_ him like this - like no one else does.

It makes you feel _safe_ and still - everything twists around in your gut - your fears and your worry and the leftover adrenaline from nearly fucking dying and abandoning the kid. It bursts forth from your throat.

“I need you,” you plead in a half-sob before you drag him to your mouth.

His lips are punishing - _possessive_. He dominates you as he holds tight to your jaw - forces you open to receive him. It’s utterly desperate as he hauls you up against the hard length of his body - as he kisses you like the both of you are sick with fever - hazed in dizziness. He cups your cheek - curls his tongue around yours - his teeth sinking into your lower lip as you both pull and push at the other for _more more more_

“Sweet girl,” he pants into your mouth. “My perfect thing - I-I almost lost you.” It slips out on a shudder - on the tumble of whine.

Din doesn’t cry - you’re not even sure he knows how - and you think this might be as close to tears as he will ever get.

You’re grabbing at his pants - sinking your hand behind the band of them before he rips his mouth away - the shine of spit on his pink lips. “Now?”

There’s no judgment - no incredulity.

 _Just “_ now”?

And then _understanding_ as he blinks down at you.

They’ve done worse in worse places and this is _good_ \- this is _relief_ \- this is them on the crest of a wave as they wait for it to crash and burn with them near-drowning in the pitch fucking blue of it.

But they didn’t burn - they didn’t drown - they _lived_.

“Please,” your fingers wind around his cock - silky, hot skin filling in the circle of your grip.

He grasps your jaw - dark, deep eyes searching your face - his thumbs brush over your cheekbones as he holds you steady. His voice dips - echoes the shadows in the cave - demanding and husky as if towed over course pebbles and sheetrock. “You need me to give you my cock?” He flattens his palm over yours - shoving down hard against the thick curve of his shaft. “Want me to make you so fucking full you forget?”

“Yes,” you cry beneath the onslaught of his tongue - a rough, open-mouthed kiss. _This_ is what they do - how they handle their pain and the cold burn of their grief. They fuck without hesitation - without caution or grace or thought.

You want him so badly it _hurts_. You want to feel the pulse of his cock and the way his muscles harden as he braces his weight over you. You _need_ him for what he does - what he represents in a crisis: his power, his strength, his pragmatic head that so easily parts the _what if_ from the _what did_.

You want his _love_.

It’s a frenzy of movement - of torn clothes and his cuirass and pauldrons crashing into the sandy ground. He keeps his boots - pants locked around his knees, but the _rest_ of him - the _rest_ is bare and browned - the color of gold and copper and he is the most beautiful thing you have ever witnessed - touched - enveloped inside you.

He’s between your legs - his tongue slick against your hipbone - the top of your mound - then your inner thigh. His nose dips between the crest of your swollen sex - his fingers unforgiving in the way he pumps them to stretch you. Your legs are hitched over his shoulders - his broad hands pinning you down to the dirty floor as he tongues your cunt - fucks it with sloppy, primal strategy.

“Gorgeous girl - always so sweet for me,” he mumbles into the thin skin above your cunt. “So fucking ready for me all the time - so tight - feel your pussy get so wet.”

You buck up into him - your words lost to the talent of his mouth as he _eats_ you - _slurps_ and _licks_ and _sucks_ you from hole to cilt in this moonlit cave. You’re bruised - you’re marred by dried blood and grime and _still_ he drinks from you like you’re honey - like you’re syrup from a cracked fruit.

It’s manic - it’s like you’re being flung through hyperspace without the shell of a ship - star dusted and blinded by all the multi-colors of those passing planets - passages of time - the vortex of _forever_ and you don’t even realize when he’s climbing up your body - when he’s bearing his weight over you before his cock is sheathed to the hilt and you contract around him as he pounds you into the rocks and sand and dirt.

“Almost lost you,” he gasps between each slam of his hips - his back bowed - thighs flexing between your knees. You drag your fingers through his soft, thick hair - biting your nails into the muscular planes of his shoulders.

“Do you like this?” he grunts as he locks you in place - as he bruises your hips with how vigorously he’s holding you. It feels like every slide of his cock leaves you raw - leaves you flaring - swelling and juiced. “You like me fucking you on a cave floor like a Tusken, yeah? You filthy, desperate girl.”

It’s not difficult to catch - _to see_. Din slips between vulnerable truths and absolute defilement - tender confessions buried under crudeness.

_I almost lost you. I couldn’t bear it._

_I want you to take my cock like the good girl you are. I want to swallow your come._

It’s how they work. It’s how _Din_ works

He fucks you hard - rocks scraping your waist and the cushion of your ass. You tip your pelvis up to meet him - to accept each harsh, ugly stroke he has to give you. He’s always too big - fucking engorged - to the point that it hurts - it leaves you sore and fluttering on a stark emptiness when he inevitably pulls himself from you as he softens.

You _miss_ it - miss it always - especially when they’re parted - when he’s away from you on his own hunt.

You peer down at where he’s thrusting into you - your wedged open sex - split on the engorged, shiny rod of his cock - the ferocity in his rhythm - and _oh fuck it’s good -_

It’s erotic - all of it - the glimmering sheen of your slick staining the short, curled hair at his groin - the fact that both of his thighs and yours are soaked. His eyes are luminous in the creeping night - his hand coming to pull at your hair - to force you to _look_ at him.

He lays claim to you. _This_ is a claiming, you realize.

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder before he lifts you up - maneuvers you to straddle him while shifting to his knees and then lets you _slide_ right down the unforgiving thick of his cock so he can fuck _up_ into you. You feel his fingertips - down where they’re joined - sweeping your come up to the bud of your clit and rubbing in tight, little circles. You cry then - shove your face into his neck before he can see - before he can _know_.

“Don’t do that,” he soothes. “Look at me, sweetheart. That’s it - look and know that you’re safe.” He brushes his lips over yours. “You’re safe with me.”

And there’s nothing after it - no lewdness - no impurity - just him balancing you on the anchor of his length - keeping you as close as he possibly can get - his hand cradling your face as he rests his forehead to yours - the mossy punch of your taste on his tongue and in the quiet, in the full dark - he _breathes_ your name.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @charnelhouse (i'm brand new and need friends)


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